The Soul That is Inside
by Aubretia Lycania
Summary: The Hogwarts festivity dance fast approaches in dark times--everyone in the group has a date, except dear Harry and Hermione. Sometimes sitting at a table all night with a few butterbeers, watching the world dance without you, just isn't enough. HHr
1. You Could Taste Heaven Perfectly

"The Soul That Is Inside"

Author: Aubretia Lycania

Rating: G

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, or any part of his world. I merely attempt to exist within it, with perfect respect for J.K. Rowling's creation. I have characters of my own, and if someone tried to take credit for them, I'd be pretty cheesed off. The song, in the final chapter, is "Sk8ter Boi" by the excellent Avril Lavigne—however, I've made a few changes to the lyrics to suit the Wizarding world better, given the song's usage.

Author's Notes: Okay, this is my first completely Harry/Hermione (and kind of Ron/Luna, Ginny/Neville, as well) fic, and my first non-angst, non-dark, fluffy (shudder) fanfiction. It's something that's been in the back of my mind for about a year now, and at the prodding of a dear friend (with a fire poker), I was… um… _inspired_ to write it down. It is dedicated to Susan Amethiene, my Beta and one of my best friends; she is known to you as both Susie Greenleaf and Susie Bones. I'm not really sure how effective I am with this kind of happy writing, so feedback is greatly appreciated, as always. Please enjoy.

December dawned hazy and bright; the falling snow sprinkled the Hogwarts grounds like powdered sugar onto a pastry, and out near the forest, Hagrid, the gamekeeper, could be seen dragging Christmas trees, as was his custom. It all seemed so very run-of-the-mill, in fact, that Harry Potter expected his sixth Christmas at Hogwarts to be the same as most before it—for lack of a better word, normal. He expected a dozen brazenly decorated trees in the Great Hall, a Weasley sweater, and the general quiet that accompanied a near-emptied castle, over which he, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Luna, and Neville, would have rein. A general depression had fallen, as many students had left school in the chaos of warfare, their parents no longer finding Hogwarts to be safe; the Order members were all supremely busy; the DA was not so much a secret organization as a necessity, particularly for those termed "Order Brats" both in affection and in spite—those students under the care of the Order of the Phoenix, namely Harry and his friends. Christmas vacation was, therefore, a good excuse for more practice sessions, and as the term drew to a close, Harry could often be found up late each night, planning lessons and poring over his Defense books. He could not have known how very different this Christmas would be, only that, as the nights wore on, he began to detect Hermione's eye on him, for reasons he did not choose to dwell on—dismissing it, in fact, after first noticing.

The embers began dimming to a somber glow when two o'clock chimed, and Harry found himself still down in the Common Room, stiff-necked, cold, but not alone. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle at the presence of another; a presence warm, caring, and familiar, if sometimes annoying.

"You know," came the voice that so often worked as the whisper of logic and caution in his ear, speaking from the flickering shadows and causing Harry to smile, "I'm surprised at you. You and Ron used to blow just about everything except Quidditch straight out the window. But you've really been putting a lot of effort into this, Harry."

Harry squinted at the wall beside the stairway to the girl's dorms; his eyes felt itchy and tired, and his glasses didn't seem to want to work right. "What're you doing up, Hermione? Haven't you got an Arithmancy test in the morning? I know you do, the charts you were studying are still here on the table."

Hermione sauntered out of the shadows in a blue night robe, a disgruntled-looking Crookshanks clutched in her arms and a mock-scowl on her face, which had been covered with some light purple potion recommended by Ginny after she'd accidentally hexed her. Harry laughed aloud as soon as he saw her.

"Oh, ho, ho, it's all very funny to you, isn't it?" Hermione said with a playful air, plopping down beside him and pulling one of his completed lesson plans towards her. "You're the one who taught Ginny that stupid Rolling Rash Hex, and conveniently forgot the counter. And if you must know, I'm up because I can't live with myself knowing you're down here hard at work on the DA again while I'm sleeping and not helping you." She licked her lips, twitching slightly under the layer of potion. "Besides, I couldn't get a wink if I wanted to, with all this horrid stuff spread over my face. It itches something terrible."

Harry grinned. "Maybe I should make our next meeting a recount of standard counter-curses, Hermione. Then again, purple does suit you." As she swatted at him, he ducked without having to look up. "You know I'm joking. I really can't remember it; and I'm just about finished up with these, actually." He looked at her crestfallen face—in the flickering light, he could only make out its gentle curves and slopes, the slight point of her nose, the rise and fall of her long eyelashes as she blinked, the amiable, keen shape of her eyes that slanted downwards to gaze up at him, intelligence, perception, vision beyond his own. It felt particularly disconcerting, at the moment, to be examined by those eyes, and comforting at the same time—after all, those same eyes had dissected him a thousand times before as well. "But if you can't sleep, I'd be happy to stay up with you. I'm actually not all that tired."

Hermione narrowed her eyes. "Oh no, don't do that. I know you're tired, you're a terrible liar, after all, Harry—it wouldn't be right to keep you up just because of some potion on my face. I'll just sit down here with a book… maybe read over your lesson plans. They look good." She made a move for the other scrolls; Harry, without saying a word, shook his head, got up, and strode over to a couch beside the dying fire. Some second years had left a couple of blankets there, and Harry, sitting cross-legged on one end of the sofa, covered himself haphazardly with one. Sighing in resignation, Hermione joined him, taking up the other blanket and wrapping it around herself. The two of them faced each other comfortably, leaning against the arms.

"You're so blasted stubborn," Hermione said after a moment of sleepy silence, during which an ember popped, sending little red sparks through the grates like tiny fireworks that died upon the hearth. Harry stared at them as though entranced. Moments like these came to him—when he'd realize just how many times he'd been tickled, caressed, _gripped,_ by the hand of death and escaped it. The everyday things suddenly took on an otherworldly feel, an incredible feel—where clouds swimming drunkenly above the pitch suddenly became castles in the sky too wonderful for words, then faces in the heavens, where the shapes changed from the countenances of the living to those of the dead… Fred, Ron, Hermione, to James, Lily, Sirius… And what was the most real he couldn't be sure. If only he could fly that high… but everyone said if he tried it, he'd run out of air…

Hermione watched her best friend calmly for a long while, nestling herself tighter in the blanket. Harry's eyes had fixated on a spot just beyond her, watching something she knew wouldn't be there were she to look. She decided, after allowing him to wander for some time, to try and get a conversation going again.

"I suppose I might already know the answer to this, but how are things with Cho? You haven't really said much about her lately."

Harry's expression suddenly grew rather bleak and guarded. "Oh… there isn't much, really… I haven't been too interested in her since fifth year—you know that. Ron tried to get me to ask her out again a few months ago."

Hermione waited; Harry and Ron had obviously "forgotten" to tell her a few things. "And?" She felt an odd tingle of something in her stomach, akin to nervousness, as before a particularly difficult exam or before one of the Gryffindor Quidditch games when danger would certainly be involved—that kind of unpleasant, cold, squeezing feeling somewhere in the midriff that is hard to soothe away.

Harry avoided her gaze pointedly. "Nothing happened. It was stupid—I shouldn't have asked, anyway."

"Harry…" Hermione reprimanded in a stern, mothering sort of way.

"How're things with Krum?" Harry said abruptly, obviously fishing for a change of subject, and quite bluntly so.

Hermione felt herself blush, wondering why on earth Harry would choose Krum, of all things, to jump to. "Actually, there really aren't things with Krum, Harry. My parents aren't particularly thrilled with the idea of my dating a twenty-one year old Bulgarian who's constantly on the move for games and practice, and I must say I agree with them. Besides, he's still absolutely convinced I've a… well, _deeper_ relationship with you. I told him we're best friends, housemates over the summer, do just about everything together, including nearly getting killed by Voldemort and his Death Eaters, but aren't dating. He thinks it's a bit fishy… can't imagine why."

Harry merely snorted, evidently wandering into his own mind again. Out of the mist, he said, very suddenly and quietly: "I don't think I fancy Cho too much anymore, actually. She's quite like her friend, Marietta, these days… she's a bit of a trick, if you get me," and would say no more. Hermione blinked, feeling at once both very worried and very relieved, but retained a calm silence.

The embers gradually died and the light extinguished from the room entirely, and Harry and Hermione said little more, until at last both fell asleep at opposite ends of the couch, their legs tucked up and blankets half-kicked off, looking the part of two children who'd dozed off in the living room awaiting Santa Claus.

The second-to-last Saturday before the end of term saw Harry and Hermione disheveled and half-asleep to breakfast, where Ron had already sat himself down to several tubs of cereal, shared with an equally ravenous Ginny—both of whom little noticed their friends' exhausted state. Harry spent a good part of his meal alternately grinning tiredly at Hermione and glaring at a troublesome kipper in front of him, which he knew he should eat but had no desire to do so. Halfway through it, a tumult of familiar giggles somewhere around the Ravenclaw table made him wince, and Hermione looked over at the source, a scowl crossing her face.

"Hmmm. Cho Chang's entourage, it seems. Bunch of giggling ninnies, don't know why any girl would debase herself by acting like that."

Ron's head swung upwards, his half-lifted spoon full of soggy cereal forgotten on its journey to his mouth. He looked urgently at Harry, who stabbed aggressively at his kipper, cleared his throat, and excused himself with the reason of having to remind Neville about something having to do with the DA… Hermione sniffed and glared at Ron.

"What happened with Cho that you two aren't telling me about? Why is Harry calling her a trick? I know he's not crazy about her anymore, but they still get on friendly enough."

Ron shoveled another bite of cereal into his mouth, seemingly using the chewing motion to ponder his answer. Ginny looked at them curiously, before shrugging and digging into the large bowl again, battling her brother's inactive spoon.

"Well…" Ron began, watching the soggy cereal in the bowl and not looking at Hermione. "I told him that maybe he should try asking her out again, you know, just to give it another shot and see how it'd go—stop dwelling on… things… I finally talked him into it, after a while, but the idiot went up to her in front of all those stupid friends of hers—they're like a pack, you know, he couldn't really get her alone—big Fudge-supporters, all of them, never quite got over what the papers were saying last year. You should've seen the lot of morons laughing at him, it was sad—at everything, the fact he's a Parselmouth, calling him crazy and too much of a freak to go out with Cho—and she just stood there and let them do it, didn't have the guts to tell them to leave off. I guess Harry was too embarrassed to tell you. I don't think he would've told me, if I hadn't seen the whole thing happen."

"Oh," Hermione said, lamely, the event truly hitting her right in the stomach. "Trick" wouldn't be a word she'd use for Cho and her little flock—hers would be quite a bit nastier and certainly not fit for the ears of first and second years. She was about to open her mouth and say so, when Dumbledore stood up at the head table and clapped his hands together, calling the students' attention. Harry, who'd been standing beside Neville somewhere down the table and talking, straightened and returned to his seat beside Hermione, his eyes hooded. He gave her a sidelong glance, as though sensing she was now privy to the terrible and embarrassing secret. Attempting to comfort, Hermione patted his hand gently under the table; without meaning to, Harry twitched, surprised by the sudden contact.

"Ladies and gentlemen, your attention please," Dumbledore's both powerful and weary voice sounded through the hall, his hands gracefully upraised. He looked around, his sparkling eyes seeming to smile at each individual student in turn. "These are dark times we live in, and myself and your teachers all realize how difficult the holiday season, on top of the normal studying and everyday stress of the war, can be, with so many families torn asunder. For those who will be staying with us over the holiday, there will be a small festivity dance here in the hall—not a grand production, but smaller and more intimate. Hopefully we can put trouble from our minds this Christmas at Hogwarts, and see some smiles on all these young faces." Dumbledore's eyes found Harry in particular, and hovered there for an extended second, before sitting down and allowing the normal hubbub and excited whispers to commence.

Harry felt a great weight descend upon his stomach—he had hated, with a passion, the stress of the Yule Ball in his fourth year, and at least then girls were queuing up to go with him; this time, even the girl he'd dated last year he wouldn't dare approach, for fear of further humiliation. It seemed another night of bothersome dress robes and sitting stubbornly at a table with Ron, who had looked more like his date last time that Parvati had. Harry caught Ron eyeing Ginny and making sharp gestures with his head in Harry's direction—she however, looked down the table at Neville, her eyebrows raised at him in a kind of sign language. Moments later she returned gaily to her very soggy cereal, a smile on her face.

Harry and Hermione both laughed, and the former poured Ron some pumpkin juice, relieved his best friend wouldn't be playing matchmaker between himself and Ginny, who now felt much like a little sister to him. "Well, it's got to be better than Dean, hasn't it?"

Ron snorted disconsolately and slurped his pumpkin juice, making Hermione shake her head.

"Hello, Ronald," said a misty, dreamy voice. Harry turned on his bench and grinned at Luna, who had wandered, as she commonly did, away from the Ravenclaw table to join them. "Excited about the dance? I didn't get to stay for the last one—I was a third year, and nobody asked me. I was far too shy to ask someone myself."

"Uh… yeah, I guess," Ron said, looking slightly alarmed that Luna had addressed him in particular, and slurping down more juice. Harry and Hermione exchanged meaningful glances, both biting their lips.

"Well, since we're all staying at school this year, perhaps the six of us can go as a group," Harry suggested. "Ginny and Neville already seem to have set up a date," he finished with a slight snigger. Ginny kicked him playfully under the table.

Luna gave Harry a dreamy smile. "Yes, that sounds quite fun. Good, too, because I was just about to ask Ronald here if he'd like to go with me. I've heard there are to be Sickle-Winged Imps out in the gardens this year. Dad will want a full report. I just know you'll enjoy them, Ronald."

"Ronald," however, was spewing a mouthful of pumpkin juice back into his goblet and staring in turn at all of his friends with wide eyes. He lowered the goblet slowly, now fixated on Luna. "Y-you mean—g-go—as… a couple?"

Harry, Hermione, and Ginny all kicked him beneath the table, making the dishes skip slightly with a tinny clatter; Luna, however, did not seem to notice. "Well, not so much as a couple, since we're all going together. But we are friends, aren't we, Ronald? We'll have fun."

Ginny was chortling, watching her brother's face go slightly red—right to the tips of his ears, while Harry and Hermione both fought with themselves not to laugh at the evident struggle going on about Ron's face.

"W-well… yeah… I guess… yeah. It's not a big thing. We're all going together… sure, Luna."

Luna beamed a dazzling smile, quite unlike her normal dreamy expression. "Wonderful. Dad bought me some really brilliant dress robes for my birthday—purple with these great little lime-colored parakeets perched on the arms, and a crimson burette. I'm saving it just for the occasion. Bye Ronald. Harry, Hermione, Ginny." She nodded to each of them in turn and returned to the Ravenclaw table and her breakfast of kippers with blueberry jam.

Ron watched her go with a blank and rather sickly expression, as though, as in second year, he was about to start coughing up slugs. Instead, after seeing Luna pour hot chocolate into her pumpkin juice, he simply dropped his head directly down into a pile of toast with a soft groan. Harry quietly excused himself, covering his mouth, with Hermione hot on his heels, her face burning; they rushed from the hall as in need of an abrupt bathroom break—once outside the door, however, both broke into furious and tumultuous laughter.


	2. A Bet About Us

Author's Note: Chapter titles are derived from Tori Amos's "A Sorta Fairytale."

As the two weeks remaining of the term passed at frightening speed, Harry found himself again dreading the coming of the dance; he caught glances in the hall from a rather apologetic-looking Cho as she trailed along behind her "flock"—he also caught Ron, Hermione, and Ginny shooting venomous glowers in her general direction, as well as some equally nasty looks at her giggling cohorts. To the sound of Hermione's muttered cursing and Ron's low growls were of large comfort to Harry, and as Cho sought to catch his eye, he acted completely absorbed in his Defense books, and refused to give her another thought. As the six of them would be going together, the need to find a date was no longer exactly necessary, removing a tremendous weight from his shoulders—it seemed that he and Hermione would simply sit at a table with some pumpkin juice, watch Neville and Ginny dance clumsily and laugh at Luna dragging Ron about in pursuit of Sickle-Winged thing-a-ma-whatsits, and that would be the blessed end of it. That was, of course, until the last day of term, before NEWT Charms as he, Ron, Hermione, and Neville were clambering up the steps towards Flitwick's class.

            "So, Potter, just when I thought you could go no lower," came the piercing and all-too familiar drawl of Draco Malfoy from the foot of the stairs. Harry and Hermione collectively rolled their eyes, while Ron, his eyes dangerous, froze on the top step; after the aggravation of Luna's invitation, he seemed rather ready for a fight.

            "Shove off, Malfoy!" Ron said, half turning.

            "Perhaps it's you I should be having the word with, Weasley," Malfoy retorted lazily. "Your family of muggle-lovers has obviously rubbed off on him. I mean, the rumors went around, but actually going to a dance with Granger? Though I suppose it fits—you can be an attraction, can't you?" He turned his cold glance on Harry and Hermione's stiff backs. "The mudblood and the freak. It seems you've got your father's taste, haven't you, Potter?"

            Harry whirled, his eyes emerald murder beneath a shock of black hair that moved as though in slow motion around them—in a second he was down five steps, almost within an arm's reach of Malfoy's smirking face—suddenly there were six arms holding him back, shouts in the hall, and the sound of his own ragged, shallow breathing as he glared daggers at his nemesis.

            "Don't let him get to you," floated that voice of reason through the hazy red fog of passion that obscured his vision. "He's just a stupid git who doesn't know anything, not about you or me or your parents. He's not even worth your anger. Now come on, before we're late."

            "That's right, Granger," said Malfoy, sneering. "Keep your little boyfriend out of trouble, can't be late for class after all, can we? We all know that neither of you belong here—why don't you go back to your filthy muggle Secondary School, and drop him at the nuthouse on the way?"

            "Go to Hell, Malfoy!" Ron said obtusely before Hermione held up a hand. Neville's eyes darted between his friends and the Slytherins gathering behind Malfoy—among them Crabbe, Goyle, and Theodore Nott.

            "Harry and I aren't dating, nor have we ever. We're all going as a group to the dance—but why that, or any part of our personal lives, is any of your business is beyond me. Good day." And with that, Hermione took Harry's arm and began pulling him towards the Charms corridor, which they reached to a chorus of laughter from the Slytherins below. Ron twitched his bag before looking at his friends, the look on his face one of mingled amusement and anxiousness.

            "That stupid git—wonder where he ever—like you two would ever date each other…"

            Hermione gave him a slow half-glance with narrowed eyes. "Oh—you think that, do you, Ron? And just what, pray tell us, do you base this startling observation of yours on?" Her voice, to the deeper spectator, was decidedly poisonous; Ron, however, didn't seem to notice. Harry hung back a bit, watching them with a guarded expression.

            "Well, I mean… er… you just… aren't each other's type, that's all," Ron said, as though that settled the issue.

            "Ah," Hermione said dangerously, her head inclined forward so that her chocolate-colored curls fell around her eyes. She seemed to have momentarily forgotten Charms class, as she stood in the hallway contemplatively for several moments. Suddenly she nodded her head as though to herself, again looking at Ron. "You know, you assume too much."

            With frightening purposefulness and speed, she turned on her heel, took a step towards Harry, placed both hands behind his head, and kissed him full on the mouth. Harry's eyes flew open for a second, before he allowed them to flutter closed, pondering the feeling of his best friend's lips upon his own. He had only been kissed by one other girl and on one occasion—it had been a kiss of confusion, and tears, bumbling and sorrowful, the lips of one who had wished he had been somebody else, and not himself; these however, were the lips of one who knew exactly what they wanted, what they were looking for in their search to assimilate him, to tame him, to _know_ him, lips who seemed to have already memorized every contour of his mouth, lips that understood his hesitation and every breath he haltingly inhaled. The reality of what was happening fought through the layers of his mind, _Hermione is kissing you, you idiot_, battled with him—but, oh, what he would give, how he would sell his soul to keep the dream, to hold onto it with all his life like a treasure, to let those lips soothe away his nightmares of death and war and tragedy, to fight away all the ghosts in the corners of his mind.

            But, like all dreams, this one ended in the twilight of parted lips, craving more attention and longing for the warmth so recently present; Harry opened his eyes to find Hermione looking up at him, a flash of confusion that mirrored his own shooting through her countenance before being quickly stuffed away. Hazily, as though forgetting where she was and gradually beginning to remember, Hermione slowly walked away from him and towards Flitwick's open door, at length speeding up and putting the customary strength back into her stride—enough, even, to shoot a nasty glance at Ron before she disappeared into the class. Neville hurriedly followed her, leaving Harry and Ron, standing like two statues, alone in the hall.

            Ron's mouth had dropped open wide, half shutting and dropping again in the manner of a fish, watching Harry in a kind of horror that did not really reflect jealousy—just outright surprise. Harry, however, avoided his gaze except in small spats, where he darted large, painfully guilty eyes in his friend's direction before looking away again. His breathing was again shallow—his feet and body moved a bit as though he wasn't sure what to do with them anymore. He felt like a traitor to friendship—if friendship, as an abstract, were more than simply that, a force to reckoned with—guilty for liking the kiss, guilty for wanting to keep it and jump off the cliff into uncertainty, to disregard the feelings of all others and how it may affect them, all for the sake of that beautiful mistral of hope. Unable to handle it any longer, Harry grabbed his bag and swept towards Charms, before he was stopped by Ron's hand on his forearm, gripping him firmly.

            "Hey…" he said, trying to force Harry to look at him. "Hey, mate, don't worry about it… I get it. It's okay—it's really not worth fighting with you over."

            Harry shook his head. "No… I'm not so sure you get it, Ron."

            "What? She kissed you—it's not your fault you liked it. Let them all talk, it's actually kind of funny anyway." There was a kind of false cheerfulness in his voice, a kind of resignation that made Harry want to scream. He pushed the doubt and the dream to the back of his brain and smiled.

            "Yeah, I guess it is."

            The kiss, in time, began to be rather more a joke than anything else among the six of them, and the discomfiture, like an unpleasant cloud, gradually had begun to pass away. They spent a drowsy afternoon that Sunday in the kitchens, sitting in odd positions over one of the long tables and eating the various things the house-elves brought around to them with gleeful looks.

            "So, you two, when's the big day?" Ginny said in a artistically breathy voice, stuffing an éclair into her mouth and awkwardly so, as she was lying on her back on the tabletop, her head falling upside down over the edge, allowing her flaming red hair to swing about over the bench below.

            Hermione tipped a bottle of butterbeer into her mouth languidly, leaning the base of her head against a bench from her position on the floor. "Oh, just as soon as possible," she sighed dramatically. "I think I'll drop out of Hogwarts—I can't possibly have children _and_ be in school. To Hell with being Headgirl!" She looked up at Harry, who was lying on his side on the bench above her, working on a rather sticky sugar pastry. "What do you think, Harry dear? Seven children? Eight?" She bated her eyelashes.

            Harry just barely stopped himself from snorting. "Oh no, poppet, we simply must have ten. I couldn't imagine knocking you up on the kitchen counter any less times than that." He was beginning to think that all of them had had just a few too many butterbeers, as the comfortable haze that had obscured his mind suddenly made some of the jokes they had been exchanging look pretty good. Ron, beside Ginny on his stomach, gave a shout of laugher and nearly fell to ground. Hermione reached up and half-heartedly smacked Harry's arm, before popping the cap off yet another butterbeer.

            "Oh, no, you won't be knocking me up anywhere, Mr. Potter," she said, taking a long gulp of butterbeer. "You will be wooing me with roses and wine every night for bearing all those blasted children, and then I might consider allowing you to take me to bed."

            "So you want roses, huh? Not red—doesn't seem your color," Harry said idly, removing the butterbeer from her hand, taking a sip, and replacing it.

            "No," Hermione said, somewhat leeringly. "Blue. Like the ones Professor Sprout has, with the purple tips. They always look like they haven't opened up yet. You'll get those kinds of roses for me, seven every night, and a bottle of sweet wine mixed with butterbeer and strawberry cordial. And you'll make a rainbow above the stroganoff, and there'll be five hippogriffs in the backyard, and lots of sunflowers."

            Harry felt a gentle smile touch his lips, ignoring Neville's chuckling, Ginny's giggling, and Ron's blatant snorting. "And what for dessert, love?"

            Hermione handed him the butterbeer so he could take another sip. "Peach pie, with levitating blueberry ice cream that makes you feel like you're floating."

            "Oh God," Ron half-groaned in amusement, "if only the rest of the school could hear you two now, we'd never get the end of it."

            Luna reclined back on her arms on the other bench, looking up at the ceiling. "You know, I've a strange feeling that we're all a little bit smashed," she said, unnecessarily.

            "Just a little," Neville concurred from his place atop the table, lying perpendicular to Ginny and searching about for another éclair.

            "Who cares?" Harry drawled warmly. "Ron doesn't care about the pomp, and since Hermione's dropping out of school to bear my children, it doesn't matter that she's a Gryffindor prefect. And they expect the rest of us to get up to something—this is pretty tame for a Sunday afternoon on holiday."

            Hermione leaned back and laughed, meeting Harry's eyes for a moment before returning to her butterbeer. Harry, hearing his words replayed in a strange slow motion within his mind, privately shared Luna's assertion that they were all completely smashed.

            The Room of Requirement again provided what was required—in this case, a few couches, a good-sized pile of pillows, and a veritable stack of Floobsie's and Stein's Hiccups n' Headaches Potion, which was the #1 recommended by bar wizards for hang-overs. The six of them had stumbled in from the kitchens the previous night (how they had found it they had no idea) and fell upon the soft couches in heedless heaps, asleep almost before they hit the pillows.

            It was in this way that Harry awoke, sharing a couch with a half a snoring Ron (the other half being located somewhere on the floor), his head pounding as though a thousand African town criers were sounding the war cry within his brain. He groaned lowly.  Something of the previous day hit him—small flashes, and the seed, just flowering and hopping to become fruit, of an idea, formulated in a drunken stupor. Yet somehow, even in the sober world, he did not want to immediately dismiss it. It flitted before his vision, and he felt himself smiling gently into the accommodating darkness of the Room of Requirement, listening to Ron's snores. After a moment further, he pulled himself upright, rubbing his forehead gingerly, and peered about in search of glasses; as he searched the darkness, his eyes, blurred and fuzzy, groggy from his exploits, fell upon Hermione's sleeping form, flopped over on a chair, an arm casually flung over the edge and fingers dangling above the floor, where Ginny had fallen on a pile of pillows, mouth slightly open.

            Smiling again, and finally finding his glasses, Harry placed his feet lightly upon the ground and, with a last look back at them, slipped out the door.   


	3. I Rode Along Side You Then

It was some time later when Hermione, Ron, Ginny, and Neville again returned to the Common Room—all groggy, irritable, and confused as to Harry's whereabouts, but willing to believe he'd slipped off some time in the night in favor of his own bed, without waking them. They stumbled half-heartedly through the portrait hole, disheveled and heavy-lidded, and looked around for evidence of their companion.

            "Must've skived off and gone to bed," Ron said, glancing about and not seeing Harry. He yawned and flopped down on a squashy chair beside the fire, ignoring the looks shot at him by the Common Room's few occupants. In all, only about twenty-five Gryffindors had remained behind, mostly fifth, sixth, and seventh years from half-blood or Muggle families. It was the these kinds of silent moments in Gryffindor Tower that made everyone sorely miss the Weasley twins and their boisterous antics—what any of them would give to see Fred vomiting exuberantly into a bucket, or fireworks chasing the caretaker about the castle, just one last time.

            Hermione busied herself to a table. "I can't believe myself, with a Transfiguration essay due the day after holiday on the dynamics of object-to-animal spells, I should have started yesterday…"

            Ron and Ginny let out a collective snort.

            "C'mon, Hermione," Ginny entreated. "Relax. It's Christmas time, you ought to be… eating chocolate—and peppermint sticks! And sneaking off to Hogsmeade for hot butterbeers—"

            "_No more butterbeer_." For a moment, Hermione had the still, snarling visage of a tiger, before settling down to one of the creaking tables, which had been covered for many weeks with her books and some of Harry's—no one had dared to touch them, and with good reason. "As for chocolate, I think I've had enough to last me until a mid-life crisis, thanks."

            "You were so much more cheerful yesterday, Hermione," Ginny continued, falling down before the fire, where her dazzling hair sought to compete with its roaring flames. "We should get Harry up here—he'll cheer you up again."

            "If you're making another joke about that kiss—"

            "It was _funny_, Hermione!" Ron cut in, his eyes closed, facing the ceiling in a rather slothful position. "Especially Harry's expression…"

            "Yes, well, did you ever think that Harry's feelings might not be a joke, Ron?" Hermione asked; Ginny grew very silent, her eyes suddenly wary.

            "Look, I get you were trying to prove something—"

            Hermione threw her quill down in frustration; her normally cool demeanor was gone—she seemed to have not heard what Ron had said.

            "Did you ever think that what _I_ _did_ wasn't a joke, Ronald Weasley?"

            Ron was very silent for a moment, his eyes now fully open and staring at her. "Yeah. I did, actually. And you know what I found out, Hermione? That I don't _care_. I'm going to bed."

            And, without further words, and despite it being midday, Ron got to his feet and trod purposefully up the stairs, each deliberate stomp heard upon the wood floor and a final slam when he reached the top. Ginny licked her lips and opened a chocolate frog; she was soon joined by Neville, who had opened a small book on mountainous magical Greek plants and was reading without looking in Hermione's direction. The common room was uncomfortably quiet.

            The hours drifted on, and Gryffindors steadily drifted out, to dinner and evening snowball fights, and eventually Hermione was left alone to the sounds of her own scratching quill upon parchment, her brow furrowed as she studied the page, her nose an inch from the table. Her eyes had filled with the words of her paper, opaque to all else; she did not want to think, not in the way that existed in an uncontrolled world beyond the borders of books and their comforting spines, which seemed to hold the world upon their shoulders, like Atlas yet graceful, untroubled by the burden, for all could be remedied by knowledge. Books did not have to face emotion. They may have evoked it in their readers, but ultimately the words were the same every time—facts, in their own right. They didn't dream of an ephemeral kiss shared with a best friend, a kiss which should never have happened…

The ink was suddenly smeared.

            Hermione blinked, realizing her cheeks felt wet and hot, her hair oppressive around her face. She swept it away and looked up, sniffing, still blinking eyelashes heavy with sparkling moisture. There was a soft, feathery brush past her shoulder, like a warm castle draft; a rustling sound, ever so faint. She froze, looking at the table before her.

            Nestled between _A Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_ and _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Six_, were seven roses, blue with purple tips—not yet opened, of a deep color so rich it battled August afternoon skies, the petals touched by bright beads of melted snow. Their long stems had been tied together by a thick, white ribbon, and, threaded on this ribbon, was a note in that familiar scarlet ink:

_My apologies—I couldn't quite wrangle the wine with strawberry cordial, not even house elves would oblige me with champagne, I nearly blew myself up trying to make a rainbow appear above stroganoff, Hagrid's hippogriffs are being seen to near Edinborough by a friend, and sunflowers are regretfully out of season. In other words, I would be quite honored if you'd accompany me to the dance, Hermione. You know where to find me._

Hermione laughed aloud, and her cheeks seemed to only get wetter. She felt half-hysterical—her stomach was leaping and dancing and spinning about within her—her legs were twitching and shivering with energy, longing to run and jig and jump high towards the heavens—her hands couldn't sit still, _she_ couldn't sit still. She was standing, clenching the roses despite the pain—as though her very life depended on it, she ground the thorns into her fingers as she hugged them to her, treasuring the sensations, the feeling in the pads of her hand, the slight, warm ooze of blood, sticky and satisfying. A sob escaped her smiling lips and, in a mad dash, she ran towards the portrait hole, forsaking her books and quills and scrolls in a flight of transcendent madness, tears running down her cheeks in wonderful rivulets.

The writer had been right in saying Hermione would know where to find him. In fact, her feet alone seemed to know it by simple intuition, and as she entered the gently-lit Room of Requirement—now nothing but a small, cozy library of defense and charms books, heroic tales and novels, an unimpressive fireplace and squashy chairs, an invisibility cloak folded over a cushion, the room sporting a single window—her eyes alighted on Harry staring out on the blinding white of the grounds below, his back to her. The bottom of his robes was sopping wet, his hair a windswept, sodden disaster, his fingers pallid from cold. He seemed to know she had entered, because he didn't turn immediately, only gestured to her with his left hand, and she joined him before the window, silent.

The world outside was a white flurry, gentle madness of falling snowflakes, soft, pelting towards the ground, spinning and weaving and sticking to one another—beyond them a purely blanched sea which reached the dark borders of the Forbidden Forest, where a line of black shadow appeared a smear of charcoal on crisp new paper.

"You went out into _that_—" Hermione started, half in admonition, half in touched awe, before Harry put up a hand to stop her; she espied the hint of a smile lingering about his lips.

"Sorry," he said, his voice hushed and a bit gruff, quiet in its candid sincerity. "I'm afraid I'm not too good at these kinds of things—I mean, look how I was with… well, I don't want to talk about that necessarily… But I figured, since Ron and Luna are going 'together', and Ginny and Neville are going 'together'… well, if we're going to be alone in this, we might as well be lonely… together. Instead of sitting at a table chugging butterbeers—reckon we've both had enough of that, right, mate?"

Hermione swallowed hard, still clenching the roses; Harry had never referred to her as "mate" before—it seemed something reserved only for Ron, for male camaraderie—and in this one utterance, it was amazing how easily its definition could be changed. It suddenly meant a kind of equality—meant that she was not merely a troublesome girl whom he could never be quite as close to as with another boy. The roses said he knew she was a girl, and appreciated it—but "mate" said that, at the same time, she was just as dear a friend, not to be constantly side-stepped and misunderstood and protected. Hermione trod closer, wrapped her arm around his, and leaned her head sideways against his cheek. They'd always been the same height until a bit into sixth year, when Harry had, at long last, overtaken her by two inches, which he claimed triumphantly—though they still brought him a bit short of Ron, still an inch taller. To her surprise, Harry did not go rigid at the touch, or appear startled by the physical contact, as he was prone to doing; he instead melted slightly into it, his eyes wavering as they studied the many trails of snow as they raced each other towards the ground.

"You know, I don't think I'd have fun if I went with anyone else," Hermione said, gazing out, trying to watch the trails as he did, searching for whatever meaning he seemed to see there. "I can say anything around you—well, unless it's something bad about Hagrid or about you needing to study more—I'm comfortable with you. I could spend years with you, and I'm pretty sure I already know that nothing would ever be unexpected or strange about it—things outside would, but you… you'd be Harry. You'll never fade away. I know this castle is home for you—but _you're_ home for me. I'd be happy to be lonely with you."

"Ron's not gonna be pleased," Harry said with a note of warning; Hermione could now see their reflection in the glass; the white had begun to dim into gray as the light faded—but as it did, the reflection of two sixteen-year-olds clad in robes grew sharper and sharper. Harry's eyes were sparkling a bit, over-bright jewels of viridian and emerald, uncut, unrefined, concealing so many mysteries—but not from her. She had sliced through their depths as through butter—and a ghost of two eleven-year-olds visited Hermione at that moment, scared and streaked with dirt and dust, deep beneath the castle, a step away from Lord Voldemort, embracing in the darkness.

"I don't live to please or anger Ron," Hermione said simply. "Besides, it's not really a date. It's not a date if you go alone together."

Harry snorted. "D'you still want stroganoff?"

Hermione started laughing. "God, no! Do you still want ten children?"

"I don't want _any_ children. Imagine them having us as parents—your obsession with schoolwork, my magnetism for danger, they'd be a psychiatrist's dream."

"What about knocking me up in the kitchen?"

Harry suppressed a snort. "Well, now that you mention it…"

Hermione thumped the back of his neck. "Animal."

"Ow! Obsessive compulsive—"

"Alright, you win the insult game. Am I going to have to force you to dance?"

"Under threat of death or drinking Skel-o-Grow."

"Wonderful. Should be a real treat—I'll make sure it's a lovely, sentimental song."

"As long as it's not the Weird Sisters."

"What? Do you and Parvati have a 'song' now? They _were_ playing at the Yule Ball, weren't they?"

"Yeah, but we danced once. And it was such a humiliating experience that I didn't even hear what they were playing."

"I swear, looking at you and Ron, I'd have thought you two were the ones there on a date."

"Ho-ho, very funny," Harry said dryly, smiling ruefully.

"Well, you _did_ disappear into the rose bushes…"

"That's just wrong, Hermione. Just wrong."

"Yes, I don't think the butterbeer has completely left my system."

"Nice try. Next time, when I make a joke about you and Ginny or some such thing, just blame it on the butterbeer."

"Hmmm. Good old butterbeer—what do you say we not drink it 'til you're an Auror and I'm a Healer?"

"You want to go another four to five years of study without drinking? Are you insane? 'Course, there's always firewhiskey… we _could_ slip into the One-Eyed Witch and give _that _a try…"

"I'm just glad you're not an angry drunk, Harry. In fact, you're nicer when you're tipsy—but I don't want to see you completely sloshed."

"I could just imagine _you._ Instead of rainbows over the stroganoff, it'll be kneazles on the moon and Ron and Ginny trying to get us to snog each other senseless. Honestly, those two…"

"Oh, it was fun, though. I felt like I was in Primary School again, with all my friends and playing with dolls, talking about our Prince Charmings…"

"Ugh, Primary School. I used to accidentally turn my teacher's wig blue and jump up on the top of the kitchen roof."

Hermione chuckled. "I can imagine the Headmistress phoning your Aunt about that one. 'Your nephew somehow managed to appear above the kitchens! He must be climbing school properties!'" She waved an invisible cane or meter stick.

"Yeah, that's pretty much it. I can't picture you with a 'Prince Charming' though. Or dolls and giggling girlfriends."

Hermione let out a short, amused breath of air. "Neither could I. All I wanted was to be friends with the boys—play football if I had to. They pushed me in the mud until I learned a good uppercut."

"Haven't changed much, I see," Harry said wryly, grinning lopsidedly. "I used to be a fair punching bag for good old Dudley—'til the day I got a wand, that is."

Hermione beamed. "Shame we didn't go to the same school. I'd have punched him for you, then you could come play football with me. And you'd be turning the teacher's wing blue while I was making the board erase itself so we wouldn't have homework."

"Sounds good. Let's just say we did, yeah? I like it better that way."

The white was now the dark gray of wet sidewalks in April; their reflection was becoming clear as crystal. Hermione blinked—the ghost of two five-year-olds in the bottom form glanced across it, running down a shady muggle street, drawings and times tables clutched in their hands—another of seven-year-olds, kicking a football around a dilapidated playground—nine-year-olds pumping their legs on creaky swings, higher, higher, higher…

And there they were again, young, lithe, sweet sixteen, reflected in a snowy window of gingerbread dreams.

"Me too."    


End file.
